A Tube of Lipstick
by p-attinson
Summary: John finds something...strange in Sherlock's sock drawer.


A tube of lipstick.

That's all John needed to find in Sherlock's sock drawer. "Don't ruin my index, John!" Sherlock had said before slamming out of the flat in a fit of giggles (a crime of course; another triple murder) and tightening his infamous pea-coat around him into the blistering London air.

First off, John wanted to know why he so desperately cared enough about Sherlock to go through his sock drawer. Who had a sock drawer anyhow? A _real_ sock drawer. Not a top drawer to put your briefs or a stash you guiltily find pleasurable. But Sherlock actually _used_ his sock drawer for his _socks_.

At least, that's what John thought, anyway..

John picked up the small and shiny object; a plated gold tube of lipstick. Yes, it was lipstick. And red, too. A light shade of red. Scarlet, maybe? Yeah, scarlet worked. Then John remembered what Sherlock had said about Molly's painted mouth on Christmas not too many years ago and there was only one explanation.

Molly.

John narrowed his eyes and stuck the tube of lipstick deep in the pockets of his trousers. There was no way John would let Sherlock slip by in this sort of situation. No way whatsoever. Knowing that he would even be _keeping_ something of this sort (in private, at that…) made John wonder if his best friend really did feel that way towards women. He did with Irene, that is, until she was beheaded. And maybe he still does. Either way, he'll never figure out that route.

John figured, well, Molly wasn't so bad. She was regularly pretty. Not Irene, by far no, but pretty. And plain. Just how Sherlock would like, as John supposed he couldn't take a chance to bruise his ego or sense of power in that way. John wondered then, too, if maybe Sherlock was just involved with Molly because that's what human beings were created to do, right? Become_involved_ in order to pass on life.

Either way, John was confronting him tonight. There was no doubt about that.

Later at approximately seven P.M Sherlock arrived back home from Barts (oops, had Molly been working?) in a feathery sort of mood. John was lounging idly on his favorite chair while flipping through a newspaper in a robe fresh from the shower.

"Ah, John! Just the man I wanted to see. Lestrade found a key. I don't know what it's for. I think it might be the step-mother's…." he groaned in exhaustion while shedding his coat and tossing it on the desk, spilling mugs containing pens all over the mess which was already there. Sherlock then collapsed onto his own spot in front of John and leaned his head back.

"What a day. It's a shame you missed it." Sherlock said, opening one eye to see John's reaction.

John replies, "You know I had a meeting. I don't want to hear any more of it."

Sherlock makes a face, frowning in the extreme. "I had to solve a case without my assitan…" he stopped, realizing how frustrated John gets with the title. "-blogger…" he corrects himself.

"You managed," John says quite coldly. He doesn't look from his newspaper and continues to scan the articles without reading them. How could Sherlock simply keep things like this from him? Weren't they best friends? Didn't that mean anything to him? And then John realized.

Of course it didn't.

"You're angry with me," Sherlock pointed out. "You won't look at me. Why?"

"Clever deduction, yeah." John mumbled, folding the paper down and eyeing Sherlock with just the slightest of concentration and sarcasm.

Sherlock's mouth gaped open in a little '_o_'. "You went through my sock drawer again, didn't you?"

John shrugged. "Maybe. But it doesn't matter. I didn't find anything dangerous."

Sherlock sighs, rolling his eyes and nodding towards the skeleton. "The cigarettes are in the skeleton like they always are."

John sighs, too. "You could have told me that. I didn't know." Then he pauses. "And why are you beginning to smoke again? You were doing so well."

Sherlock growls. "Because I can't concentrate, John! You know that! The winter; it binds me up. I get this foggy mind and the only thing that'll do, even if just for a moment, is a quick nicotine fix." He slams his hands on the arms of the chair rather loudly but John doesn't budge.

John blows it off. Or pretends to. "Well, anyway, it hardly matters. I didn't find anything…" a beat. "-like that."

His flatmate raises a bushy eyebrow. "What do you mean, _like that_?"

John immediately digs into his robe pockets and tosses him the scarlet lipstick. Sherlock easily catches it and only eyes it for a moment before saying, "So?"

So? "Well, that's awfully dull of you." John mocks.

Sherlock opens the lipstick and twists it up and down. "Have you made your deductions yet?"

John's eyes widen. "That's it?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I'd like to see what you came up with."

John's taken aback by his lack of humility. "I assume you needed it for an experiment."

Sherlock shakes his head. "No."

"A case?" John guesses.

"No. Off."

"How am I supposed to know?" John asks, outraged. "It's not like you tell me anything anyway!"

Sherlock lets his head roll to the side and he stares at John like he's completely lost his marbles. "I had a woman over when you were visiting Harry, obviously. It's not that hard. _You_ could at least figure that out."

John's baffled. Distraught. "What?" He asks, a hint of laughter threatening to escape from the sides of his mouth. "You. You had a _women_ over? What did you do? Play _Cluedo?_"

Sherlock made a face. "What? _No_. It was for recreational purposes. In fact, I may want to see her again."

A large lump formed in the back of John's throat. "You. _Sherlock Holmes._ Had a_ women_ over. For _no_ reason besides the pleasure of her _company_?"

Sherlock sighs dramatically. "Oh, John, stranger things have happened. Rome has not fallen. The birds are still in the sky. The Queen is good and well."

John just lifts his shoulders and replies. "I just didn't assume you were into women in that way." But Sherlock raises an eyebrow again and John retracts. "Or anyone, for that matter. In any situation, I suppose."

Sherlock says, "I'm like that with you."

John laughs harshly. "You're not."

The detective stands. "Would you rather it be a stranger?"

John smiles, pleased by his confession. "Ah, so it was Molly."

Sherlock corrects, "_Is_ Molly."

John's mouth drops. "_Is_. As in present tense?"

A black, mop of curls attached to a sulking body slumps into the kitchen where the sound of the refrigerator door opening can be heard. John laughs, holding his abdomen.

The thoughts from years before enter John's subconscious: _what might we deduce about his heart?_


End file.
